Jake knelt over Sophia. Placed a hand against her tiny chest and took heart in its steady rise and fall. Patted her cheek gently and said, “C’mon, little one-wake up for us, okay?”
Sophia didn’t stir. He patted her cheek once more, harder, and when that didn’t work, he shook her gently. He was about to try again when Emily placed her hands on his to still them and shook her head. “Careful,” she said, and only then did he realize he’d been on the verge of going too far, of shaking her too hard-his panic taking over.
And then, by some miracle, Sophia opened her eyes and began to cry.
Jake had never heard a sound so beautiful in all his life.
But his relief was short-lived. With Sophia awake and responsive, his priorities shifted.
“Em, think back. When you fell, did you see Hannah and Aidan?”
She frowned as she struggled to remember. “No. I don’t think so. They weren’t with you?”
He shook his head. “No. We got separated somehow, and when I came to-I-I don’t know. Help me up. I’m going to go find them.” She grabbed his elbow, and with her support, Jake found his feet. “Hannah!” he bellowed, fighting the urge to cough. “Aidan! Tell me where you are!”
“Dad!” It was Hannah, strong and clear. “Dad, we’re over here!”
He stumbled toward them, a smile breaking across his filthy, bloodied face when he saw shapes in the smoke resolve themselves into his children’s forms. Hannah sat with Aidan’s head in her lap, stroking his hair as he wept. They’d bickered the whole drive here, he recalled, but now she was there for him when he needed her. For a moment, Jake was overcome with pride; he felt as if he’d just been offered a glimpse of the amazing woman Hannah would become.
“Are you two all right?” he asked. Aidan shook his head, his tears carving arroyos in the dirt and ash that caked his face.
“I’m okay,” Hannah said, though she was scraped up pretty good, “but Aidan’s leg is broken. I don’t think we can move him without help.”
She was right, Jake realized. Aidan’s leg extended away from his body in an unnatural zigzag. Bone, jagged and gore-streaked, protruded from his shin.
“Where are Mom and Sophia?” Hannah asked.
“Back that way.”
“Are they…”
“They’re fine. We’re all going to be just fine,” he said, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You hear me, buddy?” Aidan nodded, and his sobbing abated some.
Jake knew Aidan needed medical attention, but he was worried that if he left to get help, he’d never find his way back here. Reflexively, he reached for the pocket where he normally kept his cell phone, but it wasn’t there. Right, he thought, I left the damn thing in the car, and Hannah had to lend me hers to take the video. It couldn’t have gone far.
He looked around-the ocean breeze taking mercy on him and dispersing the haze some-and spotted it lying a few feet from them at the path’s edge, its bedazzled edges sparkling, its screen a dark reflection of the sky.
He ran to it. Dialed 911. The phone rang twice, and then the call was dropped.
Jake tried again, muttering, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” as it began to ring. This time, an operator answered. “Oh, thank God,” he said. “My family and I are on the trails just up the hill from Fort Point, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. There was some kind of explosion.”
“We’re aware of the situation, sir,” the operator said. From the tension in her voice and the clamor behind her, it sounded like half of San Francisco had called it in. “Are any of you hurt?”
“My son’s leg is badly broken. I think he’s going to need a stretcher.”
“Are you in immediate danger?”
Jake looked around. The nearby trees were scorched bare. Ash rained lazily from the sky. “I…I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Just stay put, then. Help is on the way.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”
Jake trotted back to Emily, who held Sophia close and tried to calm her. Brought them over to where Aidan lay and told Emily the EMTs were coming. Jake was so overcome by everything that had transpired-and so relieved his kids were safe-he never stopped to wonder where the gaunt old man who’d been holding Hannah’s phone had gone.
5.
SO HE SAYS, ‘Nicky, I’d like to introduce you to my uncle.’ And I reply, ‘Your uncle? Thank Christ-I thought that was your mother!’”
The table erupted with laughter. One of Pappas’s henchmen, Milos, slammed his palm down on the dark-stained wood so hard, their plates jumped. The other, Dimitris, just chuckled and shook his head. The two of them looked so alike that, for a time, Hendricks couldn’t tell them apart. Eventually, though, he was able to keep them straight, partly because Milos was by far the more gregarious of the two, his wide eyes dopey and inattentive while Dimitris’s were sly and watchful, and partly because Dimitris had an ugly scar that snaked around his right biceps and disappeared into his shirtsleeve. Hendricks had seen his share of scars like that during his black ops days. It was a shrapnel wound-which meant Dimitris was ex-military.
They’d been sitting here for nearly two hours, the table littered with picked-over plates of steamed mussels and fried calamari, grilled shrimp and baked stuffed lobster-even the remnants of a salt-crusted sea bass, roasted whole and filleted at the table by the chef. Bottles littered the table too. Ouzo for Dimitris-Barbayanni, a brand that Hendricks had never heard of before today. Cruzan Rum for Milos, who drank it straight-wincing every time-once his compatriots teased him for cutting it with Diet Coke. Johnnie Walker Blue for Hendricks. A bottle of an unpronounceable Greek red wine for Pappas.
Pappas’s goons seemed to have no compunction about getting drunk so long as Hendricks was too-in fact, their boss encouraged them-but Pappas chose to nurse his wine. He was shrewd and watchful even among friends, a trait Hendricks might’ve admired if he didn’t despise everything about the man.
“Another drink, Mr. Dalton?”
“I told you, Nick-please call me Jimmy. And I’m not even done with the last one yet!”
Pappas flashed Hendricks an impish grin. “Then I suggest you rectify that presently.”
Hendricks smiled back. “Hey, who am I to argue? You’re the boss.”
He blinked hard, reached clumsily for his drink, and knocked it over. Amber liquid spilled across the table. Hendricks frowned and blotted at it with a cloth napkin.
“On second thought,” he slurred, “I think I may’ve hit my limit.”
The chef-a scraggly tattooed guy named Noah who turned out to be a genius in the kitchen-came over to the table bearing a platter piled high with cheeses, fruit, and local honeycomb. He and Cameron were the only two working-Pappas had instructed Noah to give the rest of the dinner-shift staff the night off, and he’d slipped Cameron and the chef a thousand bucks apiece for their trouble.
“Noah!” shouted Milos. “Sit and have a drink with us.” Milos’s cheeks were flushed. His forehead gleamed with sweat. His smile was broad and guileless.
Noah looked uncertainly at Pappas, who gestured toward an empty chair. “By all means, Noah-join us.”
Noah sat down. Milos sloshed some rum into a dirty glass for him and poured another for himself. Dimitris poured a fresh drink too. The three men clinked and drank.
Milos slammed his empty glass on the table and stood, teetering slightly. “Dimitris,” he said, clapping Noah on the back, “pour this man another round. I gotta see a horse about a piss.”
“Yeah,” said Hendricks, rising unsteadily to his feet and staggering after Milos. “What he said.”
Hendricks had been waiting all afternoon for the right time to make his move. He wasn’t carrying any weapons because he’d had no way of knowing whether Pappas’s goons would pat him down when they arrived. That made taking on two armed thugs at once a risky proposition-riskier still if Pappas was also carrying. Plus, he wanted to keep the waitress and the chef out of the line of fire, if possible.